


Love makes the world go round

by Eienvine



Category: The Good Cop (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 09:04:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17505641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eienvine/pseuds/Eienvine
Summary: Things have been tense between TJ and Cora since she kissed him on the night of her ill-fated wedding, in a moment of loneliness and weakness. Now they’ve been assigned to go undercover as a married couple for an investigation. That won’t be awkward at all.A retelling of episode 10.





	Love makes the world go round

**Author's Note:**

> I have a very lengthy theory that episode 9 actually falls chronologically back around episode 3, and so 8 and 10 happen back to back, and the tension between TJ and Cora in episode 10 is a direct result from the events of episode 8. This story follows that idea; the episode where the Carusos buy the restaurant happened months ago.

 

. . . . . .

There is no situation so bad that Cora Vasquez can’t find a way to make it worse. That’s all she can think as she stares at TJ’s wide, pained eyes.

Normally she’s not so self-deprecating, but her fiancés—yes, plural, she’s had three—have a way of bringing her down. There was Alex, who cheated. There was Marc, who cheated _and_ hit her. And there was Warren, who drugged her and tried to throw her out a window on their honeymoon, only eight hours ago.

(Clearly her taste and judgment is worsening over time.)

It’s because of them that she’s feeling so terrible about herself, that she’s such a train wreck right now. Obviously Warren’s the most immediately to blame, but she suspects she wouldn’t have fallen so quickly for him if Alex and Marc hadn’t done such a number on her emotions. So it’s because of all three of them that she’s just ruined her friendship with TJ.

It’s because of them that she’s in this situation in the first place—because of them that the Carusos took her home with them and fed her scrambled eggs, and she’s now standing at the door of TJ’s bedroom, overwhelmed with guilt because despite all she did and said to him, TJ is giving up his bed for her. It’s because of them that she’s a little bit drunk (she’s pretty sure that when the doctor said to give her liquids, he didn’t mean alcohol, but TJ allowed it so she wasn’t about to complain.)

It’s because of them that she feels like such a dumpster fire of a human being. It’s because of them that she feels so completely and fundamentally unlovable; she must be, because how else do you explain the fact that no guy who’s made any kind of long-term commitment to her has ever— _ever_ —been faithful? It’s because of them that she suddenly feels so completely alone and unwanted that she’s choking on it.

And it’s because of them that she looks up at TJ, with his brows furrowed in concern—TJ, the last honest man, and possibly the only decent guy who’s ever been interested in her—TJ, who saved her life today and cooked her scrambled eggs and smiled awkwardly as he observed that it’s hard to be wise and in love at the same time—and finds herself surging forward to kiss him. She just wants to be held by someone who loves her, who has no intention of hurting her. Is that so bad?

TJ is still as a statue and totally unresponsive to her kiss at first, and then she feels his hand come up to rest on her arm. There’s a moment of _yes-please_ coursing through her veins, until she realizes he’s using that hand to very gently push her away.

“You’re not yourself right now,” he says, and his voice is kind but his eyes are surprised and hurt, and that’s when she realizes: there’s no situation so bad that she can’t find a way to make it worse. Because _of course_ it’s bad, to give him encouragement she doesn’t mean in a desperate attempt to fill the black hole where her heart should be. She used him, the way her fiancés used her, and for a moment she hates herself.

“Sorry,” she chokes out, unable to meet his eyes, and she rushes into his room and closes the door. She climbs very carefully into the tidily made bed, strangely unwilling to mess up the covers too much, because she knows she is an interloper who doesn’t deserve the kindness of TJ’s bed. The bedclothes smell like him. She didn’t know that she knew what TJ smelled like until this moment.

This is not how she expected to spend her wedding night.

She burrows deeper into the covers and cries herself to sleep.

In the morning she calls a cab before she’s even gotten out of bed, and doesn’t go downstairs until it arrives. Tony is surprised and a little put-out—he’d been planning on making her an elaborate breakfast—but TJ makes no objection to her leaving so soon. He watches her go with resigned, mournful eyes that haunt her as she slumps in the back of the cab.

Because she knows that look in TJ’s eyes; it’s the same look he had when he he left the squad room, shocked and hurt over that fight and those terrible accusations she made. And now she’s put that look on his face again. And she knows she can’t blame her fiancés for that, not entirely. That was her.

She cries again.

. . . . . .

It’s amazing how good they are at avoiding each other. They’re two detectives on a three-detective team, and still, for six weeks after that night, they manage to avoid ever being alone together. That’s TJ’s doing, mostly; he makes the assignments, so he can make sure that any time two of them need to do something, it’s him and Burl, or Cora and Burl. This means they really only see each other occasionally in the squad room, and even then TJ’s got his own office, and they’re both terribly busy, and it turns out that e-mail is a very efficient way for Cora to relay information she once would have told TJ in person.

In the meantime, she stops going to poker night, and she stops going to Farrell’s, and really it’s incredible how two people who work as closely together as they do manage to avoid talking to each other for so long.

But one day it can’t be avoided, because Captain Delghetty has an assignment for them. Burl and TJ have been down examining a body—TJ specifically asked for Burl’s help, and didn’t mention Cora, and she’s glad of it, really, and also slightly hurt—and they’ve just come back upstairs when the captain strides in.

“Put everything else on hold,” she instructs Cora and TJ. “You’re moving into the Drake Apartment on 73rd, undercover, together. You’ll be posing as husband and wife.”

This pronouncement is met with absolute silence; Cora can only assume TJ is too dismayed to react, just as she’s too embarrassed to do so.

The captain doesn’t seem to notice the lack of reaction. “There’s been three accidents, all suspicious, all in the last five weeks.”

Cora barely hears the rest of it—Burl’s theory about offing rent-controlled tenants, Ryan’s inane conclusion that “Maybe it’s a mystery.” The captain explains they’re looking for a serial killer; still no response from TJ and Cora. She explains that they need to gather handwriting samples from everyone at the Drake to match to a note the killer left behind; still they are silent.

“You two have anything you want to say?” she prompts finally. “You’ve been pretty quiet.”

TJ steps forward. “I . . . don’t think we can work together like that anymore.”

“Why not?” she demands. “You have the best track record in the department.”

There’s no way they can answer that honestly, so Cora simply says, “Philosophical differences. Our investigation styles might not . . . mesh.”

“Plus no one will believe we’re married,” adds TJ.

“Not with the way you’ve been acting lately,” Burl agrees under his breath.

Oh, good, Burl’s noticed.

“It’s called acting,” says the captain, and in her voice Cora can hear the eye roll she’s too professional to show. “But—” she points at TJ— “you’re my best detective, and—” she points at Cora— “you’re no slouch either, and you’re the right age. So figure it out!”

And she strides away, leaving TJ and Cora standing in awkward silence.

. . . . . .

After the quietest and most awkward car ride of Cora’s life, she can’t help but speak as they pull up to the Drake. “Look,” she says firmly, “I know this isn’t an ideal situation. But it’s an assignment, and there is a killer on the loose. So we can be cool about this, right?”

Something about that causes TJ’s expression to dim a little, but she doesn’t know why until he says, with a self-deprecating smile, “I’ve been told I’m not very good at ‘being cool.’”

Oh yeah, Warren. Probably the last person she wants to bring up right now, and she finds herself grimacing. “I just mean, we can be professionals about this.”

“Of course,” says TJ formally, and she rolls her eyes.

“Not too professional,” she reminds him. “We’re supposed to be married.” And TJ stiffens again.

This is going to be a long few days.

In silence they haul their bags into the lobby of the Drake. The young doorman, Donovan, greets them by name—well, by fake name—which means the NYPD has done a good job of getting this cover established.

“How long will you be with us?” he asks.

“Not long,” says TJ. “I’m just getting my aunt’s affairs in order.” This is their cover, and their assignment: to move into the apartment of the most recent victim, Mrs. Ackroyd, pretending to be her nephew and his wife who are there to put her affairs in order. Cora looks at the swanky building, and the uniformed doorman—she has never in her life lived in a place with a doorman—and thinks that her fake aunt-in-law lived in a very different world than Cora Vasquez.

The doorman expresses his condolences for their loss and offers his services, should they need any help. That’s the perfect segue to collecting their first handwriting sample, so Cora thinks fast.

“Yeah, I was wondering, is there a good gym nearby? Not for me, for Anthony.” She lays a hand on TJ’s arm and feels him stiffen, and fights the urge to roll her eyes.

“There’s Smigel’s, on 71st and Broadway,” Donovan offers, and Cora thanks him and asks him to write it down for her. He goes over to the desk to do so, and once he’s out of earshot, she rounds on TJ.

“You need to stop freaking out when I touch you,” she hisses. “We’re supposed to be married. This should be normal for you.”

He won’t quite make eye contact with her. “Sorry. You’re right.”

And she fights back a sigh and regrets, for the one millionth time in the last six weeks, ever kissing TJ Caruso. “We’re okay?” she asks, and to make sure puts one hand on his upper arm.

This time he stills only for a moment before plastering on a fairly convincing smile. “Of course we are, darling.”

She snorts at that. “Darling? Are we in the 1950s?”

And now TJ’s smile is real. “I like ‘darling,’” he objects, then tries, “Love of my life? My sweet? Honey-bunch?”

She laughs out loud at that, but before she can respond Donovan returns. She sees him take in the hand she still has on TJ’s arm, and the smiles on both of their faces, and his expression softens for a moment. Good, they seem to have convinced him that they’re a real couple.

And what’s even better, the mood is far warmer as Cora snaps a picture of Donovan’s note and they let him lead them up the stairs to Mrs. Ackroyd’s apartment.

“So this is exactly how she left it,” Donovan says as they reach the apartment, and goes on to tell them a little about the unit and the building: where the laundry is, and how quiet this apartment is because it’s in the back, overlooking the courtyard. As he speaks, Cora gets a text from Ryan: he’s analyzed the picture she just snapped, and Donovan’s handwriting doesn’t match the note from the killer. She shows the phone to TJ, who nods subtly.

Meanwhile Cora and TJ are both wandering around the apartment, taking it all in. It’s a nice place, good-sized for New York City and expensively finished. The decorations and furniture are all very “well off old lady” in style, and Cora is struck again at how little she’d have in common with her fake aunt-in-law. But then she looks down at her turtleneck and her silk scarf and thinks that maybe Mrs. Cora Ackroyd, if she existed, would have more in common with the old lady than Detective Cora Vasquez.

But yeah, this isn’t her style at all, or TJ’s, she’d wager. If she and TJ had an apartment—

Umm.

She has no idea where that thought came from. And she refuses to finish it.

TJ, meanwhile, has wandered into the hallway, which is covered in small framed family photos. “Aunt Kristen sure loved her photos,” he observes, and Cora drifts in to see what he’s looking at.

“No pictures of you?” Donovan asks, and Cora suddenly worries they’ve not completely convinced him yet.

So she wanders up behind TJ, resting her chin casually on his shoulder so she can examine the photos with him. He tenses only for a moment this time, and she imagines Donovan won’t have noticed. Her eyes fall on a small, dark-haired boy, and she lifts a hand to point at it. “That’s you, isn’t it, sweetheart? I think your parents have the same picture on the wall down in their basement.”

“You’re right,” TJ agrees, sounding just a hair relieved. “That’s me.”

Bless him, but he isn’t great at this undercover thing, is he? For some reason her brain decides to find that endearing, instead of irritating, and for one brief second she thinks she should plant a kiss on his cheek, since she’s already so close to him.

Just to keep up their cover, of course.

But she’s not going to do it; that would be a terrible idea.

Because she’d mess up her lipstick, obviously. That’s all.

She should really get her face away from TJ’s before she gets any other weird ideas.

She walks the window at what she hopes isn’t a suspicious speed, and the beautiful, snowy sight outside distracts her from her discomfort. “Ooh, love the courtyard,” she observes. “What’s that plaque?”

The plaque in question is on a black marble plinth in the center of the courtyard: obviously expensive, but she can’t read it from here.

“The courtyard is famous,” Donovan explains. “Or . . . infamous. Twenty years ago a woman named Betty Weir was assaulted there. She was stabbed.” There’s a hint of hesitation in his voice, and Cora wonders at it.

“I remember that case,” TJ volunteers. “It was a big story. Some of the neighbors heard her screaming for help, but no one called the police.”

“What are you going to do?” Donovan asks, his voice resigned. “It’s the society we’re living in.”

But Cora grimaces. It’s a tragic story, and she suddenly has a very different view of the residents of the Drake than she did before.

TJ moves to the window as well, and, apparently noting the people outside setting up chairs in a  sheltered area, asks if a wedding is taking place.

“No, that’s a memorial service for your aunt.” Donovan gives him a little smile. “Heads up, they’re probably going to ask you to say a few words.”

Knowing perfectly well how TJ feels about public speaking—especially when he doesn’t actually know the woman in question—Cora feels some impish part of her take over. “He would love to,” she proclaims solemnly, and raises a hand to pat his chest. TJ looks at her a moment, irritation and amusement warring in his eyes, and she stares serenely back.

He breaks first. “Yes, of course,” he says to Donovan, “I’d love to,” and Cora has to fight back a smile. Because this is going to be hilarious.

And because this is the most normal interaction they’ve had since she met Warren.

. . . . . .

TJ’s speech at the service is not too bad, considering he never met the woman, and also fairly terrible, considering he’s supposed to be the woman’s nephew. All he can do is awkwardly comment on what he observed in her apartment—she was a woman who loved spices and John Grisham novels—but somehow it works, because the assembled mourners are all nodding and murmuring their assent. And Cora finds herself smiling throughout, especially when he kisses his fingers and presses them to the framed photo of the old woman.

She’s smiling because it’s funny to see him so uncomfortable, and she enjoys watching him flounder a bit. But she’s also smiling because somehow, the speech apparently works; TJ has his moments when he does better in a social situation than she expects, and it always makes her feel a little pleased for and proud of him.

In fact, she imagines that the assembled mourners see little amiss, just a well-put together but slightly uncomfortable young man remembering his aunt. She thinks it’s funny that she had to dress up to become Mrs. Cora Ackroyd, while he had to dress down to become Mr. Anthony Ackroyd: khakis and a dark polo with the top button undone. He looks good this way, to be honest. Don’t get her wrong, she loves a good suit—although TJ’s suits never fit him well enough to be really genuinely good suits—but there’s something compelling in seeing him look so casual. Like he’s a real person, not just a shockingly precise and focused detective. It’s the same way she felt seeing him in sweats that night after her wedding—

She would like to stop this train of thought, please.

So she turns her focus to her clever plan for collecting handwriting samples: a memory book about Mrs. Ackroyd. “Something for the family to keep,” she explains as she mingles with the guests. “Since she always spoke so highly about everyone here at the Drake.”

People are very willing to write a few words recalling favorite memories of Mrs. Ackroyd, or giving the family their condolences; it’s all quite lovely, and Cora thinks that maybe when they’re done analyzing the book, she’ll see if they can get it to the real Ackroyds.

After twenty minutes, she’s talked to most of the guests—it’s not a large building—and TJ has finally gotten away from the knot of well-wishers. “What’s this?” he asks.

She explains about the memory book, and he looks impressed. “Handwriting samples,” he says, understanding her thinking right away. “That’s a good idea.” He hesitates, and she can’t quite read the look on his face. “That’s showing initiative,” he observes, which reminds her that he hasn’t returned her personnel evaluation yet—isn’t that one of the items on it? Maybe this is a good sign. But also, aren’t those supposed to be done already? Not like TJ to be late finishing an assigned task.

Before she can ask about the evaluations, they’re interrupted by an older woman with a deep voice. “Excuse me, I didn’t get to sign.”

Ha, the book _is_ a good idea! People are now volunteering to provide handwriting samples. Cora quickly hands her the memory book. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she observes.

“Olivia Nyborg,” the woman says, and gestures across the courtyard. “I live in 5G, right up there. I can’t believe I’m wearing black again. This is our third memorial this year.”

Cora is suddenly very alert, aware this could be a golden opportunity. Beside her, TJ remarks casually, “We heard. Any theories?”

But the woman has nothing to contribute, suggesting only that the building is cursed or they’re all very unlucky. She’s not completely unhelpful, though; she comments on how well-liked how Mrs. Ackroyd was, observing that nearly everyone in the building came to her service.

Again, TJ probes gently. “Almost everybody?”

“Everybody except for Nathan Cobb in 7A. He’s a strange bird.”

Cora glances at TJ, and she knows he’s thinking exactly what she’s thinking.

Before they can ask her any more about this Nathan Cobb, though, Olivia Nyborg presses on. “You know, I knew Kristen had a nephew, but I didn’t know you were married.”

And TJ slips smoothly into their cover story. “It happened very quickly. We were introduced by a friend last year, and well, that was it.”

“That was it,” Cora agrees with a smile.

But TJ’s not done. “Cora’s unlike any woman I’ve ever met,” he observes, and okay, she knows this is for their cover, but she is just not emotionally ready to deal with TJ saying sweet things about her, okay?

So she quickly turns the subject of conversation. “No, it’s Anthony who’s one-of-a-kind,” she says, a little too loudly and a little too quickly, and now Olivia Nyborg is giving her a surprised look, and she turns to TJ so she doesn’t have to meet the woman’s gaze. “Anthony is . . .” They say the best lies have elements of truth in them, right? “I brought some serious baggage to the relationship. Anthony has always been . . . incredibly understanding and supportive, no matter what I’m dealing with.” She means it, because these days barely a day goes by without her thinking of TJ telling her he’d be the one to mourn her if she died, TJ telling her that even if she never found biological family she’d always have the squad, TJ nearly dying to find out the truth about Warren, TJ making her scrambled eggs and looking so young and vulnerable in his hoodie—

Maybe TJ realizes the truth in what she’s saying, because his expression softens and the corner of his mouth turns up, and they just stand there staring like idiots for a few moments.

“May I say something?”

Cora jumps about a foot and turns back to Olivia Nyborg, willing herself to appear collected.

“I was a marriage counselor for 35 years. You know how a baseball player can read a curveball in an instant, just like that? That’s me with marriages, and I’ve been watching you two all afternoon.”

“Watching us?” TJ repeats, and Cora shares his concern. They’ve not been making much effort to appear lovey-dovey; has this woman seen through them already?

No, apparently that’s not a concern. “And I like what I see,” she says. “Clearly you two aren’t very physically affectionate in public; that’s fine, a lot of people aren’t. But the way you look at each other: that says it all. I’m never wrong about these things, and you two are going to go the distance.”

Cora is a _cop_ , she is _undercover_ , she should be able to hear stuff like this without becoming a blushing schoolgirl. Her only consolation is that when she glances at TJ, he looks similarly embarrassed.

“I don’t mean to embarrass you,” says Dr. Nyborg. “Like I said, I can tell you’re very private about this sort of thing. But then that’s one of the perks of getting older; you can say whatever you want.”

She gives them another fond look and bids them farewell, and TJ and Cora stand in awkward silence for a few moments. “Well, we fooled her,” says TJ.

“We sure did,” says Cora, not willing to make eye contact with him right now. Since apparently the way she looks at him gives strangers the idea that they’re going to ‘go the distance.’ “Good job.”

“You too,” he says tightly.

There’s another few moments of silence, and then she rushes off, explaining she needs to get the handwriting samples to Ryan. She is not a coward. But she _is_ a total mess who kissed her boss in a moment of weakness and now has no idea where she stands with him and is therefore not too keen to listen to a marriage counselor gush about how she looks at him.

So . . . time to put some distance between her and TJ.

. . . . . .

Spending half an hour snapping pictures of the entries in the memory book and texting them to Ryan gives her enough time to chill out, and by the time TJ pokes his head into the bedroom to ask if she’s ready to go visit Nathan Cobb, she has regained her composure.

On their way to the seventh floor, Cora gets a text from Ryan: he’s checked all 84 handwriting samples, and none of them match.

“So that’s everyone cleared,” observes TJ as they walk toward 7A. “All the tenants, everyone who works on staff . . .”

“Everyone except the elusive Nathan Cobb,” Cora finishes. She’s got a good feeling about this. Nathan’s the only one who hasn’t been eliminated as a suspect, and after what Dr. Nyborg said, about how he’s a bit of a loner . . .

Unfortunately, Nathan Cobb is destined to say elusive a little while longer. Cora knocks on the door, her friendly-neighbor smile pasted on, but it’s Donovan the doorman who answers, looking cheerful and not at all not nearly as surprised to see them as they are to see him. “Cora! Anthony!”

Cora blinks. “Hi! We’re . . . looking for Nathan Cobb.”

“We already met everyone else in the building,” TJ adds. “We just wanted to say hi.”

“That’s mighty neighborly of you,” beams Donovan, then explains, “Nathan’s out of town. I’m feeding his family.” He invites them inside and introduces him to this “family”: an impressive collection of reptiles that Donovan looks after when Nathan is away.

Cora fights back a sigh as Donovan introduces them to some of the reptiles—all named after characters from _The Godfather_ —and shows them around. But it isn’t a total waste of a visit: from Donovan they learn that Nathan travels so much because he sells high school textbooks, but that he was in town when Mrs. Ackroyd died.

They also learn the alarming fact that Nathan Cobb keeps a krait snake, apparently the most poisonous snake in the world; its name is Vito Corleone, and its bite will allegedly kill inside two minutes. TJ backs away from the cage quickly, and Cora shares the sentiment: who in the world would keep a pet that could kill you that quickly if it got out?

They wander the cages for a few moments, and then Cora hits the jackpot: a page of instructions from Nathan on the care and feeding of his reptiles. With a glance at TJ, Cora subtly pulls out her phone and photographs the page. Then, just in case Donovan heard the sound effect on her camera, she starts cooing over the tiny alligator in a nearby tank.

“Aww, who’s this little guy?”

“That looks like a crocodile,” TJ observes.

Okay, fine, it’s not an alligator.

“They’re illegal in the state of New York,” he goes on. “You should be careful. That’s a . . .”

He trails off, probably at the look Cora is giving him—equal parts incredulous and amused. “An infraction?” she guesses with a grin, and he is clearly fighting an answering smile. She’s missed his smile; she’s missed teasing him and seeing that smile aimed at her. So she reaches into the open tank. “You know what?” she asks, carefully grasping the crocodile and lifting it from the water. “Why don’t you let him know? Why don’t you tell him he’s an infraction?”

It’s a little bit funny, how uncomfortable TJ is having the crocodile in his face, but she doesn’t want to actually cause him distress. So when he says, with barely concealed panic, “Darling, put it back,” she acquiesces with a sly grin.

“Sorry,” she tells the alligator with feigned sorrow as she places it back in the tank. “My husband suffers from reptile dysfunction.”

When she looks back up at TJ, his expression is annoyed and amused. “You know, you’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“I’m twice as funny as I think I am,” she counters immediately, and the fond look TJ gives her—well, she suspects it’s not entirely feigned. Her face grows warm, but she can’t help grinning up at TJ, as he grins back.

“Dr. Nyborg was right, I can see that,” say Donovan, who Cora had nearly forgotten about. She jumps about a foot in the air and looks over to see the doorman grinning at them. “She said you two were made for each other. You remind me of my parents, actually; they were the happiest couple I ever knew.”

There’s a brief, awkward moment of silence, until Cora remembers that they’re supposed to be married; they’re supposed to be accustomed to hearing things like that. So she smiles. “That’s very kind of you to say,” she says, and takes TJ’s hand in hers. “I hope we’re as lucky in our marriage as your parents were in theirs.”

TJ’s hand tightens reflexively around hers for a moment, and then just as quickly is pulled away. “That’s the hand you put in the crocodile water, _darling_ ,” he observes.

She grins at him. “I know.”

. . . . . .

Ryan’s really slow in responding to this last handwriting sample, and before long it becomes clear that TJ and Cora will have to spend the night in Mrs. Ackroyd’s apartment. Which is fine, obviously, because they are both professionals and this is a purely professional operation.

Before he clocks out for the day, Donovan recommends a nearby Chinese restaurant that does delivery, and TJ and Cora eat at Mrs. Ackroyd’s dinner table, her poring over a casefile, him reading an article about forensics from an academic journal. It’s sort of . . . cozy. Domestic. And it’s freaking Cora out.

Because it reminds her of another cozy, domestic evening, with TJ in sweatpants and a hoodie, making her scrambled eggs and giving up his bed for her and staring at her with that bewildered, hurt look after she kissed him.

And she is so tired of thinking about that night. She has spent far more of the last six weeks than is healthy thinking about that night, and about that whole horrible Warren affair.

Cora has made her share of stupid mistakes in her life, but she’s always taken comfort in the fact that usually, she only hurts herself. If only she’d been so lucky with the whole Warren mess. Because in the whole Warren mess, she knows she hurt TJ. Hurt him a lot, when he did absolutely nothing wrong.

She hurt him when she stood in front of the whole squad room and accused him of falsifying evidence against Warren because he had feelings for her. She knows better than anyone that what TJ fears most is being like this father, and she used that intimate knowledge of his weaknesses and fears to hurt him in the worst way anyone could.

And she hurt him when she kissed him, using him as a convenient shield against her own loneliness, knowing perfectly well that he feels more for her than she does for him; again, she exploited her knowledge of and closeness to TJ and hurt him in the most personal way possible. Because apparently she’s a terrible person like that.

Maybe things wouldn’t be so uncomfortable if they had a serious talk about everything that happened, but all she’s managed so far is a strained apology at the hospital. And they’ve never spoken about that kiss. And they really should. Because she is just so tired of thinking about that night.

(She keeps thinking about that night, but it’s not only about how sorry she is; it’s also about that kiss, more often than she’d like to admit, and that moment when he touched her arm and she’d been certain for a moment that he’d been about to kiss her back, and in that moment there’d been _yes-please_ coursing through her veins, along with _oh-good_ and _finally_. And sometimes she imagines doing it again, this time without all that trauma hanging between them.

But there’s no point in thinking thoughts like that. Sometimes she’s not even sure that TJ did have feelings for her; sometimes she suspects that was just an idea that Warren planted in her brain so that her loyalty to him would force her to distance herself from TJ, the only person who saw through Warren’s act. She knows abusers and other scumbags, and she knows the way they isolate their targets from friends and family.

And even if TJ did have feelings for her then, surely he doesn’t now, after all the awful things she said and did. He barely even seems to like her as a friend anymore, given the way he’s been avoiding her the last six weeks. Which is too bad, because it’s only after TJ’s started to pull away from her that she’s admitted to herself that he’s probably the most important person in her life.)

Yeah, she’s tired of thinking about that night.

. . . . . .

They get ready for bed early because there’s seriously nothing else to do. TJ has offered to give her the bed, which means at least she can watch TV for a while before she goes to sleep.

Around nine she calls Ryan, demanding to know why he hasn’t gotten the results on the last handwriting sample to them yet. He mumbles some excuses about the hard drive crashing.

She’s heard this excuse from Ryan before. “What do you mean, ‘the hard drive crashed’?” she demands. “Ryan, that computer’s police property. You playing video games again?”

“Noooo,” drawls Ryan in a denial that would’ve been incredibly unconvincing even if she hadn’t distinctly heard the beeping of the video games and him shushing someone on the other end of the line.

“Get it back up,” she commands, and hangs up.

“Is the handwriting a match?” TJ calls from the bathroom.

“The computer’s down,” she sighs. “We won’t know ‘til tomorrow.”

“I mean, it’s gotta be him, right? We eliminated everybody else.”

“We’ll know soon enough,” says Cora, and hears TJ gargling. Yeah, he seems like someone who takes oral hygiene seriously. “And we’re stuck here until then,” she murmurs.

“You say something?” he asks, coming out of the bathroom, and she’s distracted for a moment by the fact that he’s wearing real live actual pajamas—a matching top and bottom set in pale blue cotton, with a collar and buttons and all. She didn’t know anyone had worn pajamas like that since, you know, the 1970s. He looks like an overgrown child.

It’s adorable.

She realizes she’s been staring wordlessly. “Umm, nope, just talking to myself.”

“That’s a sign of insanity,” he observes, and she snorts.

“You do know how to say sweet things to a girl,” she says, and he looks abashed for a moment. But now that she’s looking at him properly, she notices something. “Hey, you bleeding?”

He glances down at his collar, surprised. “Am I?

“Is that a new top?” she guesses, and bites back a fond smile as she gets up to take the pins out for him. “I used to work at a department store,” she explains, and is not certain why she’s telling him about her past. Normally talking about her past is her least favorite thing to do—even harmless things, like the job she had the summer after high school—but something about this moment, this dimly lit apartment and TJ in his adorable pajamas, makes her willing to be vulnerable. “Had to warn a lot of people about the pins in the pajamas.”

TJ holds very still as she removes the pins. “Thank you,” he says, and the slight discomfort in his voice is enough to douse the sudden urge she has to smooth down the collar of his top with her hands (to leave her hands there, to feel the warmth of his skin through the cotton—)

“You’re welcome,” she says, and looks down at the pins in her hand so she doesn’t have to look at him for a moment. But then something occurs to her. “You’ve never worn this style of pajamas, have you?”

He doesn’t answer at first, and when she looks back at him, he looks more uncomfortable than ever. “No. These were a birthday gift from my great aunt.”

“Your birthday was months ago,” she observes. “You just decided the best time to take them out for a spin was on an undercover assignment?” She chuckles as she goes to throw the pins away, and it’s only as they’re falling into the trash that what’s she’s just said really hits her. Did he . . . did he choose this night to wear his new pajamas because he knew she’d see him? Did he . . . did he want to look nice for the night they’d spend in the same apartment?

No, that’s impossible. Maybe he sleeps naked most of the time so he had to dig up the only pajamas he owns so as not to turn this into an HR nightmare.  And she chuckles to herself at the idea of TJ sleeping naked; somehow she can’t imagine that at all.

Not that she’s trying to imagine TJ naked.

Crap, this is going to be a long night.

“Where are your pajamas?” TJ calls after her, apparently deciding not to answer her question.

She keeps her face perfectly serious. “I left them at Abby Crenshaw’s house when I was eight years old.” TJ makes a face at her and she adds, “She lives in Queens; should I call her?”

“No, no, she’s probably sleeping; better not wake her,” TJ says, and Cora can’t help smiling. She loves when TJ banters with her; normally he gets flustered when she teases him, but when he keeps his composure, he’s actually a lot funnier than he gets credit for. A lot funnier than she gives him credit for, at least.

It’s getting late, and TJ bids her good night and heads off to the living room. He’s gone about 2.5 seconds before it occurs to Cora that none of Mrs. Ackroyd’s sofas will fit his tall frame, and she walks to the door of the living room in time to see him poking at a sofa.

“I thought this folded out,” he confesses.

And Cora has a brief but fierce internal debate. Sharing Mrs. Ackroyd’s queen size bed with TJ would probably not be good for her peace of mind. But to let him suffer on a tiny couch or on the floor, while she’s got a whole bed to herself, will leave her feeling guilty all night. And she’s already done enough to cause him pain and discomfort.

“Look,” she says reasonably, “the bed in here is big enough for two.”

Something she can’t read crosses his face. “Are you sure?”

So she gives him a reassuring smile. “We’re trying to catch a killer. You need to be on the top of your game, not exhausted because you had to sleep in the bathtub or something.”

He stares at her a long moment. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Another hesitation. “You’re absolutely sure?”

“TJ! Do I have to drag you to bed?” And then she turns around and leaves because she can feel her face heating up, and she thinks to herself that things are never going to stop being awkward around TJ if she keeps accidentally shouting innuendos at him.

By the time TJ has cautiously entered the bedroom, she’s grabbed the remote and started flipping through the channels, because she really needs something to distract herself from him. “ _Cyrano de Bergerac_!” she exclaims. “Aw, we watched that in high school. I love that movie.”

But now there’s the matter of how to arrange themselves on the bed, which ends up being a much more complicated undertaking than expected. TJ suggests one of them sleep with their head at the foot of the bed, and Cora agrees even though she’s pretty sure they can be professional enough to handle sleeping the normal way. So she goes to the top of the bed while TJ arranges pillows at the foot, but this lasts about thirty seconds until TJ complains that he needs to be near his sound machine. So she switches places with him, nudging him to roll over so she can climb over the top of him—

(holy cow, she did _not_ think this through)

—and settle where he once was, her focus firmly on the TV so he doesn’t see that she’s a little flustered now. But watching TV from this position hurts her neck, so TJ comes up with the idea to put a reflective tray at the head of the bed so she can watch the TV in the reflection. Only now the subtitles are backwards and unreadable, so TJ has to read them to her.

This has truly been the most overcomplicated thing they’ve ever done, and she thinks again that they should’ve just both put their heads at the head of the bed.

But once they’re settled, it’s not so bad. It’s kind of funny, actually, listening to TJ read the subtitles; his pronunciation of the French names is atrocious, but he acts out the lines with gusto, and he even puts on a high voice for Roxane’s lines. So the evening turns out to be kind of fun. She’s comfortable and warm, and TJ is pleasant to listen to; she’s always liked his voice. It’s like the weirdest sleepover she’s ever had, only a little more . . . cozy: her and TJ, the most important person in her life, cocooned in the light from the TV, safe from the dark night around them. Cozy. Together. She’s dreading the moment the movie ends.

And she does love _Cyrano de Bergerac_ , even if it’s more for the beautiful costumes than the story. To be honest, she’s always been frustrated by Cyrano; he should’ve just told Roxane how he felt, and the truth about the letters: that it was his beautiful words that she fell in love with, not Christian’s. He shouldn’t have let his sense of honor, and his curious mix of stubborn pride and crippling self-doubt, get in the way of being with the woman he loved and force the both of them to live lonely lives. At the very least he should have done Roxane the courtesy of telling her the truth, so she could make up her own mind.

Halfway through the movie, sleep starts to call her name, but she forces herself to stay awake; TJ shows no signs of slowing down, and she’s enjoying this too much to miss any. But by the ending, it’s getting hard to resist, and she decides she’s just going to close her eyes for a moment and listen.

On screen, Cyrano is mortally injured, and comes to see Roxane one last time; he reads aloud the last letter from Christian, and slowly Roxane comes to realize it was in fact her old friend Cyrano who wrote it.

“Farewell, Roxane, because today I die,” reads TJ softly. “No more shall my eyes drink the sight of you like wine. Never more with a look, that is more a kiss than a look, shall I follow the sweet grace of you.”

_Cyrano really should have told Roxane the truth so much earlier,_ Cora thinks again. _If only he’d been open with her about his feelings._

“I am,” TJ murmurs, “and will be in the next world, the one who loved you with all his soul.”

The reaction is immediate. It’s that pleasant swooping feeling in her chest, a whole flock of butterflies in her stomach, the way she felt just before her first kiss. It’s warmth in her belly and tingling in her toes and giddy anticipation in her heart. And it’s all she can do not to visibly react.

TJ must notice that she appears to be asleep, because he stops speaking after that, and a few moments later turns the TV off. There’s a click, and the room goes dark, and she hears him settle into bed with a sigh. But it’s a long, long time before she manages to sleep.

This is not a good time to develop romantic feelings for TJ Caruso (is there ever a good time to develop romantic feelings for your boss?).

But it doesn’t matter. Apparently she did it anyway.

. . . . . .

It’s a long time before she falls asleep; her brain and her heart are a mess right now, and it’s not helping at all that she can hear TJ’s soft, even breathing beside her. So her exhaustion makes her disoriented and baffled when she’s awoken the next morning by TJ hissing something about a snake in his pants.

If it were any guy but TJ, she’d think that was an awful attempt at a come-on. But it _is_ TJ, so she forces herself awake and tries to figure out what on earth that cryptic statement meant.

Turns out it’s not that cryptic; turns out there is literally a snake in his pajamas. Specifically, a krait snake, named Vito Corleone, owned by Nathan Cobb, and it appears that they have solved the case. Who else could be trying to kill TJ, other than noted loner and reptile enthusiast Nathan Cobb?

First, though, there’s the matter of saving TJ from death by poisonous snake bite. TJ vetoes her first suggestion of trying to shoot it—okay, so maybe she’s still a little exhausted and disoriented—so she runs to the kitchen for a large, lidded container and a pair of tongs. When she returns, though, the snake has curled up on TJ’s chest. Under his pajama top.

Which is how Cora comes to find herself straddling TJ’s hips, slowly unbuttoning his pajama top, and even all the terror coursing through her veins cannot stop her from noticing exactly what this looks like, and she hopes very hard that TJ will attribute the color in her cheeks to the fear and exertion of the last minute.

She pulls the snake off him without mishap, scrambles off the bed, and slams the lid shut. In the silence that follows, he stares at her. She stares at him.

And then grabs her clothes and goes to the bathroom to change, because she really needs a minute to herself right now.

She can’t linger very long; they need to find Nathan Cobb as quickly as possible. But now that the adrenaline is subsiding, her legs are starting to shake, and she locks the bathroom door and slumps down on the edge of the tub, her elbows on her knees and her face in her hands.

If she’d hoped that her sudden onset of feelings for TJ last night were a brief anomaly that would fade in the light of day, the rude awakening she’s just had feels perfectly calculated to prove her hopes thoroughly unfounded. She’s never personally seen TJ in so much danger, so very close to death, and the fear that hit her like a freight train lingers in her veins still. _She cannot lose him,_ is the thought that keeps running through her mind, and even now she is fighting the urge to throw her arms around him and tell him that she is _so glad_ that he’s okay—

And then that little part of her that is still stuck on that moment when he was beneath her on the bed also wants to throw her arms around him, but for a very different reason—

Crap, she’s really done it, hasn’t she? She has fallen for Anthony Caruso Jr.

That complicates matters.

She forces herself off the tub and gives herself a long hard look in the mirror, reminding her reflection that she is a detective, and this is not the right moment to let her feelings run away with her. They will solve this crime and catch Nathan Cobb. And then she can deal with her inconvenient new feelings.

. . . . . .

But solving the crime is not as straightforward as they’d hoped. The doorman—Henry the night doorman, filling in for Donovan—assures them in the most positive tones that Nathan Cobb is still in San Diego; he spoke with the man last night.

So who let the snake loose?

And that’s when TJ makes one of those incredible observations, those astonishing leaps of intuition, that make him such a highly decorated and successful detective. There’s a photo on the wall of the staff softball league, and it shows Donovan with his mitt on his right hand, and something about it seems to strike TJ.

“Is he left-handed?” he asks Henry.

“He’s both,” smiles Henry. “Ambidextrous. Pitches with either hand. He’s like a freak of nature.”

“Does he also write with either hand?” TJ asks, and Cora realizes that he remembers the kid writing yesterday’s note with his right hand. She doesn’t even remember watching him write it; she certainly doesn’t remember which hand he used.

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen him do it.”

And this is why TJ Caruso is the best detective Cora knows. “If he used his left hand—”

“His handwriting might be different,” finishes Cora, who may not be quite on TJ Caruso levels but who is no moron herself.

“Plus he has access to Vito Corleone.”

They look at each other a long moment, then turn to Henry. He doesn’t know much about where Donavan is right this moment, but offers to let them leave a note in his locker.

And in the locker, they find motive: a photo album showing a young boy—presumably Donovan—with a woman who must have been his mother. And there’s a newspaper article: “Could Betty Weir Have Been Saved?”

“Betty Weir?” Cora repeats, and she and TJ realize the truth at the same moment: the woman who was killed in the courtyard of the Drake twenty years ago must have been Donovan’s mother.

There are more newspaper articles, talking about the witnesses who heard the attack but did nothing, who could have saved Betty Weird and didn’t. “Donavan must have blamed them for what happened,” she realizes.

TJ picks up her theory and runs with it. “He got a job here as a doorman. He’s been killing them off one by one to avenge his mother.”

“It’s always the doorman!” Cora exclaims. Okay, not always, but she’s pretty sure she remembers a few other cases where it was the doorman.

TJ gives her a fondly amused look. “Why would you say that? It’s never the doorman.”

“It’s the doorman now,” she notes with an innocent look.

“All right,” he laughs, “it’s occasionally the doorman.”

She smiles in acknowledgment, and he grins over at her for a moment. “Hey, good job . . . partner,” he says, his voice quiet, and she suddenly realizes how close she’s standing to him, and how that smile of his makes her pulse accelerate.

“Thanks, partner,” she smiles, and looks back down at the photo album before she does something embarrassing, like kiss him right there in the Drake’s staff room in the middle of a murder investigation. But what she notices on the page there drives all (well, most) thoughts of kissing TJ from her mind. “Caruso! There were four witnesses and he’s already killed three of them: Sanders, Chaplin and Ackroyd.”

TJ understands immediately, putting his finger on the last photo in the article. “Dr. Nyborg,” he reads softly, and then looks up at Cora. “Our marriage counselor.”

Okay, if he keeps being funny and adorable, she really is going to have to kiss him right here in the staff room.

. . . . . .

They’re right about everything—they often are, when they investigate together—and they find Donovan in the courtyard by the memorial to his mother, holding Dr. Nyborg at gunpoint. TJ and Cora burst into the courtyard, guns drawn.

Donovan looks grimly pleased. “I was pretty sure you weren’t her nephew,” he says. “Turns out I was right. Too bad the snake didn’t do its job.”

“It’s all over, Donovan,” Cora calls.

“Not yet it’s not,” Donavan replies, with a hint of dark amusement in his tone, and Cora worries; he does not seem to be in the frame of mind to be reasoned with. But then, this isn’t a heat-of-the-moment kind of crime: Donovan’s had twenty years to let his anger simmer, to construct this scheme of getting a job at the Drake. She worries he’s too far gone for them to talk him down, an idea that is confirmed when he says, in a creepily cheerful tone, that he’s got two bullets in his gun: “One for her, one for me.”

That doesn’t stop her from trying, though; she takes a gamble and calls to the many people watching from the windows and doors, “Someone call the police!”

The gamble pays off. “I already did!” calls a voice from a nearby window.

“See?” Cora asks Donovan. “The city’s changed. Your mother didn’t die in vain.”

But Donovan just looks baffled and defensive; the gun pointed at Dr. Nyborg’s terrified face doesn’t waver.

Cora’s not sure where to take this next, but clearly TJ isn’t ready to give up yet. “Donovan, can we talk?”

Donovan’s still skittish, so Cora takes another gamble—a gamble that TJ will back her up, a gamble that her own gun will be enough to cover them. “He’s putting his gun down,” she says.

TJ must see the sense in this, because he agrees, “I’m putting my gun down,” and does so.

Donovan hasn’t lowered his own gun, but his attention is now firmly on TJ, not his hostage.

“Donovan, my mother was killed too,” says TJ. “In Brooklyn. It was a hit-and-run, five years ago tomorrow.”

Behind him Cora winces. She’d been intending, when she learned about how he and his father still put out flowers for Connie, to take extra care to make sure both Carusos know they have her support on this difficult anniversary. But she’s been so caught up in avoiding TJ and her own guilt for the last six weeks that it’s entirely slipped her mind.

“I think about it every day,” TJ continues, and Cora knows the emotion in his voice isn’t feigned, isn’t for Donovan’s sake. “I lay awake and I think about finding the guy, and what I would do if I did.”

Cora bites her lip and wonders what TJ would do. Tony would probably kill the guy, to be honest. But not TJ Caruso, the good cop, the last honest man; he’s not a murderer. But it’s clear from the tone of his voice that he wishes he could do something, anything, to lessen the pain. And she wonders how she never realized just how much her friend is still hurting over this.

And this is the absolute wrong time for this, but she really wishes she could hug him right now.

The story, and the pain and truth in TJ’s tone, seem to have struck a chord with Donovan. “My mom used to make pancakes for supper,” he reminisces, his tone reluctant and sad.

“Really?” TJ says, and takes a few hesitant steps toward Donovan, and Cora holds her breath and hopes she’s not about to watch him get shot.

“She loved Charlie Brown,” Donovan continues. “We had all the books.”

“My mom loved Kermit,” says TJ, taking a few more steps forward. “She could do the voice.”

And miraculously, trading reminiscences back and forth about their mothers, both long gone, seems to calm Donovan; he allows TJ closer and closer, and his arm holding the gun droops a little, and a heartbroken little smile crosses his face as he speaks of his mother.

The spell is broken as Dr. Nyborg tries to take advantage of his distraction to make her escape, and he fixes his attention and his gun back on her. “Hey, I told you, don’t move!”

TJ scrambles to get his attention back. “My mom never let us buy a Halloween costume; she always used to have us make them.”

It works; Donovan is crying now as he remembers his mom, and Cora has to admit, there’s a part of her that sympathizes. She can only imagine how she’d be if she’d had a mother who lived long enough to make an impression on her daughter, and if that mother had slowly bled out in a courtyard because the neighbors were too cowardly and too self-centered to call her an ambulance.

“My mom could forgive anybody,” TJ says, almost reverently. “She could forgive anybody anything.” Cora wonders if her son inherited that trait; she wonders if he has forgiven her for those awful things she said when she was with Warren, and for kissing him that night. “How about yours?” he asks quietly, and steps closer still. Donovan is crying openly now, his shoulders hunched. “They could forgive anybody.”

And now Donovan has crumpled into TJ’s embrace, and TJ is extracting the gun from his grip and holding it behind himself for Cora to take, trusting completely that Cora has his back and is at this moment running up to help—as, of course, she is.

The detective and the murderer stand together in their little knot of misery in the middle of the courtyard; Donovan continues to sob, and when Cora approaches with handcuffs, she’s not surprised to see tears in TJ’s eyes as well. Their gazes meet over Donovan’s hunched back; Cora gives TJ a tiny half-smile, one that she hopes communicates encouragement and sympathy. He gives her a tiny half-smile back.

. . . . . .

Donovan confesses easily to all three murders; now that the fight and the anger have gone out of him, he’s nothing but a scared little boy. Cora reflects that the difficulty of getting close to murder suspects is the emotional exhaustion that comes with simultaneously pitying someone and knowing they did terrible things.

Captain Delghetty commends them both on a job well done, and comments that this will figure nicely into both their performance reports.

“Speaking of, you haven’t given me mine yet,” says Cora.

TJ just gives her a little smile. “I’ve been thinking of changing some of the scores to reflect the latest case. You did really good work, Detective Vasquez.”

Cora grins.

That evening sees them leaving the squad room at the same time. That’s quite deliberate on Cora’s part, as she wants to talk to him away from the prying eyes of the rest of the squad room. “You want to go grab some dinner?” she asks in the elevator. Her invitation is perfectly innocent; she wants to talk to him about the things he said in the courtyard, to be a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on if he needs it, and to make sure he knows he has her support through the anniversary of his mom’s death tomorrow.

(This is her plan. And if the evening presents an opportunity to talk about that kiss, and the things it didn’t mean at the time, and the things she’d like it to mean now—well, she’s open to that possibility.)

But TJ’s giving her an apologetic smile. “Wendell’s cooking dinner for me and my dad tonight. To show his support, with—”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.

The elevator reaches the ground floor and they walk together out to where they’re both parked. “Then in that case,” she says, “before you go, I just wanted to tell you . . . I know that had to have been difficult, but I’m so impressed with how to dealt with Donovan today. And I want you to know I’m here for you, and if there’s ever anything you need, I hope you’ll ask.”

TJ’s expression softens. “Thank you,” he says, and hesitates.

“What is it?”

Another hesitation, and then TJ says a little shyly, “We’re doing a . . . a sort of a memorial tomorrow. Just laying some flowers and saying a few words. If you’d . . . I know you never knew my mom, and you would have to take some time off work, but . . .”

“I’d love to attend,” she says firmly. “What time?”

“Four o’clock,” he says. “At the corner where—well, you know where.”

“I’ll be there,” she says. “Until then, are you okay?”

He gives her a tight little smile that isn’t nearly as convincing as he’d probably like to believe. “I’m fine.”

She looks at him a long moment, and then she steps forward to wrap her arms around his neck.

He’s tense with surprise at first—no shock there, as she’s never touched him like this before—and she takes several humiliated moments to regret every life decision she’s ever made before he suddenly relaxes and returns the embrace tightly.

They stand together like that for who knows how long, TJ’s chin tucked against her shoulder, Cora trying really hard not to read too much into all of this. But maybe she could’ve gone ahead and read too much into all of this, because after a time TJ’s grip loosens, and something in the air changes. He leans back just enough to look her in the eye, and she can’t read the expression there, but her face is just inches from his and it is really doing a number on her composure.

She can’t help it; her gaze drops to his mouth, just for a moment. Their embrace is still tight enough that she feels it when he gulps nervously. His gaze darts quickly to her lips, and he leans forward, just a little, and that’s it, she’s lost. She leans forward, and her lips brush against his, and her eyes drift closed . . .

Which is why she’s caught completely off guard when TJ releases her and steps back, suddenly very tense and unwilling to meet her eyes. “I should go,” he says, and strides away to his car, leaving her alone and baffled in the darkness.

. . . . . .

Cora debates all the next day about whether she should still go to Connie’s memorial service; she still wants to support Tony and TJ, but also she suspects that TJ might never want to see her again. After all, the last time they kissed, they barely spoke for six weeks after. She imagines that this most recent kiss could earn her a solid two months of the silent treatment.

(She’s being sort of sarcastic about all this in her head, because being snide is better than admitting to herself that her heart is breaking, that even though she only realized how she felt about TJ two days ago, she still feels as awful as she did when her first engagement ended. It occurs to her that maybe she has a tendency to rush into romantic entanglements too quickly.)

(Except this isn’t quick; she’s known TJ for over a year now, and she knows him better than she has ever known another person, and even if she only realized her feelings for him recently, she’s always admired his mind, his heart, and also maybe his face. So this isn’t nearly as rushed as her relationship with Warren. Or Marc or Alex, for that matter.)

(Not that any of this matters, as TJ has made it pretty clear that he doesn’t want this.)

In the end she decides to attend, however, because to go back on her promise to be there would be like admitting how badly she’s hurting, and she’s not ready to do that. Maybe if she shows up with her head high, he won’t realize how badly she wants to tape a photo of him to a dartboard and throw darts at his face until the pain in her chest subsides.

So at 3:30, she and Ryan and Burl leave the squad room together and make their way to a roadside memorial servce in Brooklyn.

The Carusos are already there with a small group of friends and relations. They greet the newcomers warmly; Cora returns Big Tony’s hug, and gives TJ a quick polite smile before moving away, because it’s going to be harder to act unaffected if she’s right there looking at his stupid adorable face.

The memorial is brief, with friends and relations of Connie’s saying a few words in remembrance, and telling funny stories about when she was alive. Cora decides that Mrs. Caruso sounds like someone she would have liked: TJ’s goodness combined with Tony’s warmth and vivacity. She wonders if TJ was different when she was alive. At the very least, he surely would appreciate having someone to help him keep his father in line; maybe he’d be a little less uptight.

Tony and TJ go last, with Tony Sr. speaking with more sincerity and serious emotion than Cora has ever heard from him. And she can see the effort it’s taking for TJ to keep it together up there. She wonders if anyone has ever cared for her as much as these two cared for Connie. And then she remembers saying once that no one would mourn her if she were gone, and TJ saying that he would.

She wonders if it’s still true, after . . . everything.

“My mom made everything special,” he says to the crowd. “Any place she was, the sun was a little brighter. She could forgive anyone anything. And it was all because of one thing: love. Her love for her family, and her friends, and every person she came into contact with. She had this song she used to sing to me all the time: ‘Love makes the world go round.’ She believed it. That’s how she lived her life. And that’s the legacy I want to carry on with me.”

After the speeches, everyone lays flowers for Connie; those who didn’t bring bouquets of their own are given single roses to lay down. Cora sets her rose on the pile and directs her thoughts toward wherever Connie is now: _Thank you for raising an extraordinary man. I’m sorry I keep making him unhappy._

When it’s over, she debates for a few moments whether she should say goodbye to the Carusos or just leave; in the end she decides they’re quite occupied talking to other people, and they won’t notice if she slips away.

But they do. TJ does, at least, and calls her name before she’s gotten three steps. “Can we talk?” he asks, while she freezes and wonders if this is a really good sign or a really bad one.

So she nods and he leads her a short distance away from everyone else, out of earshot of his father.  “That was a nice memorial,” Cora says, remembering her determination to prove that she’s totally fine and not at all bothered that TJ clearly has no interest in kissing her.

“It was, wasn’t it?” he says, with a bittersweet little smile on his face.

That smile strikes her strongly, and she manages to move past her current discomfort to ask, “How are you doing?” He took a rare day off today, and she’d spent the whole day teetering back and forth between heartbreak and worry about his current emotional state.

He takes a deep breath, then, “Better than I expected, honestly. It’s been good to spend the day trying to remember the good things about her, rather than fixating on her death.”

Her face softens into a half-smile, and his expression softens to match, before he suddenly seems to grow tense. “And on that note, I need to talk to you.”

Probably to tell her to stop kissing him, that he doesn’t feel that way about her, maybe that he never did, as she has begun to fear is the case. “Okay,” she says evenly, determined to be cool about this.

That determination lasts until he says, “I wanted to talk about . . . us,” and then she’s suddenly tripping over herself to explain.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts. “About all of it. About all that stuff I said, and kissing you that night and then kissing you again—I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

His eyebrows lift. “Thank you,” he says after a long moment, and her heart sort of sinks and lifts at the same time, because at least maybe he’ll accept her apology and they can be friends again, but also maybe she’d kind of hoped he was about to tell her that he didn’t want her to stop trying to kiss him. “But that’s not why I brought it up.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

He takes a deep breath. “I wanted to ask you why you did it.”

She lifts her eyebrows, and he quickly adds, “Not the first time; I know you kissed me the first time because you were upset. But, last night.”

She doesn’t know how to respond—doesn’t know how he wants her to respond. And he barrels on. “Because it seemed like last night, you . . . maybe last night you were feeling . . . I was thinking maybe . . .”

His stuttering is honestly kind of adorable, but she can’t entirely hear it over the pounding in her ears. “You were thinking right,” she blurts, and then her growing hope deflates a little and she hastens to add, “I mean, if you’re thinking what I was thinking.”

He swallows hard. “Because I was thinking . . .” He steps a little closer, and reaches for her hand, and she starts to grin.

“Detective Caruso, are you proposing we commit an infraction?”

He looks embarrassed. “I know it’s an infraction, and we’d have a lot to explain to HR. That’s why I panicked last night. I just . . . I spent the day thinking about my mom, and I realized, I know what my mom would say if I asked her for advice about all this.”

But now he’s hesitating, his courage gone, and Cora tightens her hand around his. “Caruso, if you’re not about to say ‘Love makes the world go round and our feelings for each other are more important than NYPD regulations,’ I swear I will kill you.”

TJ breaks out in a relieved grin. “That’s exactly what my mom would have said.”

And this time, when she kisses him, he doesn’t push her away out of concern for her, or concern for their jobs. He just puts his arms around her and kisses her back, and she can’t believe she waited this long to fall for someone who makes her feel as cherished and as safe as TJ does.

And this time, nothing happens to stop the kiss. For a little while, anyway, until suddenly they hear cheering from behind them, and reluctantly break away from each other to see the remaining memorial guests hooting and hollering at them; Ryan looks thrilled beyond power of speech, and Burl has a small smile on his face, and she can’t remember the last time she saw Tony look so happy.

She laughs, and TJ holds her tighter. “Now will you go get dinner with me?” she asks, and decides that she loves the way he smiles at her.

Looks like her taste in men is finally improving.

. . . . . .

fin


End file.
